


Rebels Without a Cause

by sans_carte



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: ...eventually, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Child Soldier Lexa, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Pretty much everyone's in it, Slow Burn, no beta we die like ben
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2020-01-23 15:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18552256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_carte/pseuds/sans_carte
Summary: Few Americans knew much about the small, poor, heavily-forested country of Trigeda, not until well into its bloody civil war. When the fighting and the floods of refugees spilled over the borders to its wealthier neighbors, it finally provoked a UN peacekeeping mission in response. Still, many of the kids at Clarke’s high school probably wouldn’t have been able to find Trigeda on a map—even after some of the refugees began arriving in Arkadia.Clarke herself only paid attention to the newcomers when the teenaged ones started showing up in her classes, and when her science teacher assigned her to work with one of them on a project.  Specifically with Lexa kom’Trikru, the girl who seemed to be the unofficial leader of the Grounder students, who stalked around school like she ran the place.Clarke wasn’t a big fan of Lexa’s.  And the feeling seemed to be mutual...





	1. hell will be 10% fire and 90% group projects

_“We are not youth any longer. We don’t want to take the world by storm. We are fleeing. We fly from ourselves. From our life. We were eighteen and had begun to love life and the world; and we had to shoot it to pieces.”_  

***

Few Americans knew much about the small, poor, heavily-forested country of Trigeda, not until well into its bloody civil war. When the fighting and the floods of refugees spilled over the borders to its wealthier neighbors, it finally provoked a UN peacekeeping mission in response. Still, many of the kids at Clarke’s high school probably wouldn’t have been able to find Trigeda on a map—even after some of the refugees began arriving in Arkadia.

Clarke herself only paid attention to the newcomers when the teenaged ones started showing up in her classes.  Though to be fair, she’d had a lot to distract her over the past year or so. Losing her dad to a car wreck (and her mom to grief and work, for all that Clarke saw her these days without scrubs on and deep circles under her eyes), getting arrested, and being kicked out of her arts-magnet high school was more than enough to handle.  

So was adjusting to the ‘alternative’ school Clarke now attended, in a grim cinder-block campus on the rougher side of town: Academy 100.  Home of “the Delinquents”, as Clarke’s new friends Octavia and Raven proudly dubbed themselves and their classmates. They were the kids who failed too many times, got kicked out of the district’s other public schools for things like fighting (in Octavia’s case) or blowing up a science lab (in Raven’s case). They were the ones whom nobody else wanted.  

The refugees should have fit right in at the school because of that, maybe.  But they stood out too much. They spoke Trigedasleng to each other, foreign syllables echoing in the cafeteria and hallways, and wore their hair in intricate braids and locs.  A lot of the older teens had tattoos and ritual scarification marks.

Mostly it was that they had a tough, threatening, world-weary vibe about them, somehow even more hardened than the American kids who bounced between Academy 100 and juvie, like John Murphy.

Many of the Delinquents weren’t too happy about the new kids that kept arriving, the “Grounders”--so called because of the controversial Neutral Ground Act barely passed by Congress a couple years earlier, allowing in a wave of Trigedan refugees under asylum status. Classrooms were overcrowded, and tensions were high. Clarke’s art class, usually the highlight of her week, now had to share their studio space with an ESL class full of Grounders and a couple bewildered Salvadorian guys.  

Which was partly why she was so annoyed when her science teacher assigned her to work with one of them on a month-long project.  Specifically with Lexa kom’Trikru, the girl who seemed to be the unofficial leader of the Grounder students, who stalked around school like she ran the place.   Who, on her second day at the school, had pulled a freakin’ _knife_ on Raven when the girl tried to pass her a sign-in sheet.

Yeah, Clarke wasn’t a big fan of Lexa’s.  And the feeling seemed to be mutual, from the way the dark-haired girl was staring across the classroom at her.

“Each pair of students will present their project together at the end.  Yes, that means you will have to _contribute_ , Murphy,” Mr. Sinclair said sarcastically. Murphy—nobody, not even the teachers, called him John—rolled his eyes. “I’ll give you these last five minutes before the bell to talk to your partner and schedule time to work on your project outside of school.”

Clarke sighed as she grabbed her bookbag and made her way towards Lexa. _This is gonna be great._

“Hello, Clarke,” Lexa greeted her in a dry tone.  

“Hi,” said Clarke brusquely.  “Just so you know, I’m not gonna do all the work and let you come in and take credit at the end.”

Lexa glowered at her. “I will not do that either.”

“Fine,” Clarke huffed. “I can meet up Saturday.” _Might as well get it done with soon_ , she thought, _so I can go back to ignoring her_.

“That works for me.” They arranged to meet at Lexa’s house since she didn’t have a car, and exchanged phone numbers. It was businesslike. Maybe they could keep it like that, if Grounder princess could keep her nose out of the air and not challenge Clarke to a duel over some perceived slight to her honor or something.

The bell rang, and Clarke met up with Raven and Octavia on their way to the door.  “Dude, sucks that you’re stuck with Grounder bitch,” Raven offered sympathetically, seeing Clarke’s grimace.

“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” Octavia tried to console her friend.

“Seriously? Remember when she tried to knife me?!”

“Fair point--”

Clarke rolled her eyes at the other two.  “C’mon y'all, let’s just get to class.”

Raven nudged her.  “Okay, but if she murders you can I get your car?”

***

On Saturday Clarke pulled up in front of an aging brick apartment complex, old satellite dishes trailing up its walls like fungus on a tree, balconies crowded with kids’ toys, clotheslines, and mismatched chairs. Music thumped from the apartment next to Lexa’s as she knocked on the door.

“Yes?” The woman who opened the door was stern and haughty; scars and a curved facial tattoo marked her dark skin.

She was honestly a little intimidating, but Clarke had learned the hard way in juvie not to let others push her around.  She raised her chin. “Hi. I’m here to work on a class project with Lexa.”

The woman stared at her for a moment longer before practically growling, “Come in.”

Clarke stepped into a small living room.  There wasn’t much in it--a sagging couch, particle-board coffee table, and an old box-style TV--but it was spotless.  Before she had a chance to see much more of the apartment, Lexa came into the living room and greeted her.

The older woman asked Lexa something in Trigedasleng, her tone still growly.  From her glance back at Clarke, the girl assumed it was about her.

Lexa responded in their language, but her own expression and tone gave nothing away.  Then she gestured to Clarke. “Come, we can work in my room.”

“So who is that?” Clarke asked as Lexa led them down a short hallway.

“Indra, my foster mother,” Lexa explained.  

“She seems friendly.”

Lexa’s mouth curled in the closest thing to a smile Clarke had ever seen on her.  “She was a general in the Trigeda army before she came here. She is not a...cuddly person.”

Clarke snorted at the understatement.

Lexa’s room was just as small, clean, and bare as the rest of the apartment, bed made neatly and desk completely free of clutter.  Not like Clarke’s own room at all, which was usually scattered with clothes, art projects, and school books. (Her mother didn’t even try to get her to clean it anymore, _just please don’t leave dirty dishes up there Clarke_.)

The only decorations were a couple of candles sitting on the windowsill and a flag hanging on one wall. It was tan, with a black shape that looked strangely like a biohazard symbol between two horizontal red stripes.  

Without waiting for an invitation, Clarke flopped down on the bed and took out her laptop and notebook. “Okay, a ten minute presentation with a PowerPoint about the water cycle...sounds easy enough.”

Lexa simply nodded.  They got to work, Clarke mostly directing their efforts but Lexa making her own terse contributions. It went surprisingly smoothly—the Grounder girl fumbled occasionally in spelling an English word, but she was _smart_ and picked things up quickly.  Yet she only looked blank when Clarke made a joke about how “the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell”.

“Seriously, you’ve never heard of that?”

“No.  Is this a common American expression?” Lexa said evenly, reading over a page in their textbook.

“Not exactly, it’s just something basic everyone’s taught in, like, ninth-grade science!”

Lexa stiffened slightly, but she didn’t look away from the page.  “I did not attend ninth grade.”

“What, you don’t have high school in Trigeda or something?” Clarke joked, unthinking.

“No.  We have a war.”  Lexa’s tone was flat.  “This is the first time I’ve attended school since I was fourteen.”

“Oh.”  Clarke felt a slight tinge of shame, making her cheeks pink.  She hadn’t exactly paid attention to world news lately, much less the details of some tiny backwater country and its civil war.  “Sorry. But then why are you in junior classes?”

Lexa shrugged.  “That is where I was assigned.”

“Okay.  Well, this is basically how it works…” She explained mitochondria as best she could from her own memory, while Lexa listened intently, her green eyes turned to focus on Clarke.

The question niggled at Clarke, circling in her mind while they worked on their project. But when they decided to stop for the day and she started packing up her stuff, she couldn’t resist any longer.  Besides, Lexa’s demeanor had warmed slightly as they worked, with actual full-sentence responses and a noticeable lack of glowering.

“So if you weren’t in school, what were you doing for the past three years?”

Immediately Lexa’s expression shuttered again.  She slammed her book shut, and Clarke knew it was back to stone-cold Grounder princess.

“Surviving.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone asks, I do plan to continue this and will update when I can/when it's ready. In the meantime, feel free to send prompts and asks to me on tumblr (sanscarte). As always, comments and kudos are much appreciated!
> 
> Beginning chapter quote from All Quiet on the Western Front.


	2. the living are hungry

“every morning

I whisper _my country my country my country_

& my hands stay empty.”

***

If Lexa closed her eyes, she could almost remember.  What the air had smelled like, fresh and tinged with pine sap.  What the breeze had felt like on her skin, blowing crisp from the mountains.  When she shut out the view of the dusty baseball field, and beyond it, the row of cinderblock buildings and squat classroom trailers, she could pretend--just for a moment--that she’d open them again and be in Trigeda.  

She would see her grandmother hanging laundry out on a line, while she chatted with a neighbor.  She would see her grandfather come out of his workshop, curls of fresh wood and sawdust stuck to his clothes, to help her grandmother and press a kiss to her cheek.  Aden would come running up with his soccer ball, grinning and mud-splattered to the knees. She’d be back there, and everyone would be alive.

And then a whistle blew, sharp and jarring.  She winced, her eyes flying open.

She wasn’t in Trigeda.

“C’mon, let’s get a move on!” the gym teacher yelled at the students straggling in from the outfield.  The sun was out, a faint breeze stirring the hair escaping Lexa’s braids, but that was the only resemblance to what she’d just imagined.

 _Stedaunon don gon we. En kikon ste enti.  The dead are gone_ , she reminded herself harshly, and started jogging towards the backstop with the rest of her kickball team. _And the living are hungry._

Literally in this case, because lunch period was next.  Oh, she’d gone far longer without food during the war and in the refugee camp, but today...today was _Chicken Finger Friday_.

It was one of the few things she genuinely looked forward to at this school, the day every other week when the cafeteria workers dished out something that was neither a finger nor, it was likely, entirely made of chicken.  But it was the best-tasting food they served, accompanied by a dipping sauce so good Lexa would eat it on almost anything, and it was practically a holy day for the students. Attendance was noticeably higher on Chicken Finger Fridays; the principal often made major announcements on those days.

Lexa let this thought buoy her into a better mood.  If she hurried in the locker room after the bell rang, she could get a good place in line so her chicken fingers would still be hot--

“Hey, watch it!”

She pulled up short and barely avoided bumping into Murphy, who’d stepped out from behind the backstop fence while she was preoccupied with thoughts of fried food. “ _Moba_ ,” she murmured without thinking.

“I don’t speak Grounder,” Murphy sneered at her.

“I said ‘sorry’,” Lexa retorted, irritated.

He leaned forward.  “You better be. ‘Cause if you touch me, I’ll end you.”  Seeing Coach Byrne approach, he added sarcastically, “In a non-criminal way.”

“Break it up, you two.  Murphy, you’re up first to kick,” the teacher’s voice interrupted them, and the boy shouldered past Lexa with a final glare.  She rolled her eyes upward, seeking patience.

“ _Yu na teik disha branwada daun_ ,” Gustus observed as she came to stand behind the chain link backstop.  He was right; she _could’ve_ beaten Murphy.  The nineteen-year-old senior, who already had dark stubble over his clan tattoos and a grown man’s stature, had served in her platoon.  He had seen her fight.

“ _I know.  But he is more smoke than fire.  And I am trying not to get another_ in-school suspension.” The latter phrase didn’t exist in their mother tongue.  

Gustus shook his head in pretend disappointment. “ _You’re going to turn soft like these Americans, Commander_.”

She shoved his shoulder goodnaturedly, and he pretended to lose his balance. Then they both watched with satisfaction as Murphy made a flailing attempt at a kick and struck out.

***

_Two months earlier…_

Lexa hadn’t actually intended to harm the girl.  It was pure reflex, when she sensed motion behind her and a touch on her shoulder, to pull out the knife she had stolen from a store three days before.  

“Hey, what the fuck?!” the girl yelled.  Lexa had grabbed her hand, the one she had tapped Lexa’s shoulder with, tugging her forward and towards the blade angled against her stomach.  All in one reflexive motion, before the sheet of paper the girl had been holding hit the floor.

A sheet of paper.  A teenaged girl, an American, with a dark ponytail, red jacket, and round, scared, angry brown eyes.  Not a threat.  Even though her heart was pounding.

“Raven, language!” came the teacher’s voice.

Lexa let her go and pocketed the knife again, taking a calming breath, but it was too late.  Commotion erupted.

“But she pulled a fucking knife on me!”

“What did I just say?!”

“I saw it too, Miz Cartwig, she does have a knife!”  It was the boy with the floppy hair and the prominent Adam’s apple sitting in the seat next to Lexa, staring at her in fear.  “It’s in her pocket now.”

The teacher came over to them, sighing tiredly.  “What did you say to her, Raven?”

“Nothing! I just handed her the sign-in sheet and tapped her on the shoulder! Then she went all Black Widow on me, like a _psychopath--_ ”

“Okay, enough.  Take a seat.” The girl slowly obeyed, still glowering at Lexa.

“Alexa, isn’t it?” She looked up, but didn’t correct Ms. Cartwig.  It was her second day in school, and she hadn’t spoken a single word yet.  She still didn’t know enough about this place, needed to gather more information before taking any action.  “Did you threaten Miss Reyes with a knife?”

If Lexa said yes, would she be arrested? Would she lose asylum status, or get her foster mother in trouble with the authorities? She shouldn’t have brought the knife to school.  She shouldn’t have let her fear and reflexes get the better of her.

She remained silent.

“Maybe she doesn’t speak English,” boy with the Adam’s apple said.

The teacher sighed again.  “I don’t have time for this, I have a lesson to teach.  Come on, you’re going to Mr. Kane’s office.” She made exaggerated motions for Lexa to follow her, and with a hard swallow Lexa grabbed her backpack and stood up. “You all work on your homework, since I know half of you didn’t finish it anyway,” she directed the class before leaving.

Lexa followed the teacher, straightening her back against the unease creeping over her.  This new school unsettled her. The strange, loud, English-speaking teenagers jostled each other in the hallways, while their teachers struggled to keep the chaos under control.  The loud bell at the end of each period made her jump, nearly every time. The cafeteria smelled awful.

The fact that other students from her homeland attended the school was not entirely a comfort, either.  Some of them had Azgeda facial scars. She might have faced them in battle, or killed someone in their family...

There were two middle-aged men in the room where Ms. Cartwig brought her, in the administrative wing of the building.  A white man with brown hair and tired but kind eyes, sitting behind a desk, and a dark-skinned man with a grey beard. It looked like they’ve been arguing about something, Lexa observed as she stood at parade rest, hands behind her back.  Ms. Cartwig explained briefly what had happened before heading back to her classroom.

“Lexa kom’Trikru, isn’t it? I saw your guardian enrolling you the other day,” the white man said, stumbling a little over her name.  “I’m Principal Kane. This is Vice Principal Jaha.”

So Kane outranked Jaha, but they were fighting.  Interesting.

“Do you want to tell us your perspective of what happened in Ms. Cartwig’s class?”

Lexa didn’t respond.

“Do you understand English?” Jaha asked.  She merely looked at him.

Kane frowned.  “I thought her enrollment paperwork said she does.  Some of them speak English pretty well…”

“Clearly not her.” Jaha’s tone was dismissive.  Lexa decided she didn’t like him.

Kane sighed.  “This is why I asked the district to assign us a full-time interpreter.  Every month we’re getting more Trigedan kids...we need to create another ESL class and God knows where we’ll find the classroom space for them.”

“What we need to do is get another security guard.  And metal detectors,” Jaha insisted.

“I’m not going to turn this school into a prison,” snapped Kane.

Jaha gestured at Lexa.  “You heard Callie, she pulled a knife! She could’ve stabbed another student.  You want that to happen on your watch, _Principal_?”

This man clearly didn’t respect his leader.  Anya would’ve trounced him for that.

“Of course not,” Kane said with another sigh.  “We’ll have to suspend her, at the very least. Technically she could be expelled or arrested--”

“So why aren’t you expelling her or calling the police?”

“Because she’s a _kid_ , Thelonious,” Kane practically snarled.  “She just came from a warzone. Some of these Grounder kids have lost their entire families, been imprisoned.  Of course they’re going to be...reactive.”

Jaha shook his head.  “Almost stabbing someone is beyond ‘reactive’.”

“I would not have stabbed her.”

Both men stopped and stared at Lexa.  

She spoke again, calm and quiet and tired of their bickering.  “I reacted instinctively to protect myself, but I would not have actually harmed her.” _Unless she posed a real threat,_ Lexa thought, but decided it was probably better not to say that aloud. They were still staring at her, stunned.

“So you do speak English,” Kane finally said.

 “Some of my people do, as you said.  Mostly those of us who are warriors.”   She took the knife from her pocket and set it down on his desk.  “Also, I did not know that weapons are not permitted here.  I apologize.” It was a lie, Indra had essentially told her as much, but she thought they’d believe her feigned ignorance.  

“You shouldn’t have pretended not to understand us,” Jaha said sternly.

“You shouldn’t have assumed that I did not understand, just because I did not speak.” She met his gaze, held it until he glanced away.

Principal Kane interrupted them.  “Lexa, you’re going to get two days of in-school suspension, starting today.  And I’m assigning you to read the entire student conduct handbook.”

She nodded, accepting her fate.

Jaha stood to leave, looking disgusted. “You’re lucky,” he told her.  “If I were still the principal, I would have expelled you.”

The door closed behind him, and Lexa looked back at Kane.  “From where will I be suspended?”

He glanced up in confusion from where he was writing something down.  “What?”

“From where will I be suspended? The ceiling of the gym?” It was the only place in the school she could think of that has the right kind of support beams, for whatever chains or ropes she assumed they would use.  The Maunon supposedly had a pulley system built into the ceiling of their bunker headquarters, for stringing up dissidents and rebel fighters while they were being interrogated and tortured.

Kane’s eyes widened.  “Jesus, no, that’s--” he stammered, with a nervous half-laugh. “Suspension isn’t a physical punishment.  You just have to miss classes, sit in the office, and do extra assignments.”

Lexa was relieved, if baffled.  That didn’t sound like much of a punishment at all.  

He finished writing and handed her the paper.  “Take this next door, they’ll set you up in the ISS room.  You can return to class on Friday.” As she took it, he added, “You said you were a soldier, right?”

She lifted her chin.  “I was a commander.”

Kane gave her the same half-frightened, half-pitying look the aid workers had worn when she spoke of her story, but he quickly smoothed it into a more diplomatic expression.  “Well, you aren’t a commander anymore, you’re a student. Try to remember that. Your fight is over now.”

The blood drained from her face at his last words.  

 _He doesn’t speak Trigedasleng, he doesn’t know what he is saying_ , she told herself.  Unconsciously, her hand drifted towards her stomach.   _My fight is NOT over._

“Lexa?”

She gathered herself enough to nod sharply, ignoring his puzzlement, and left the office.

***

“Lexa, you’re up!” Byrne shouted.

She jogged up to the home plate.  To her misfortune, Raven was the pitcher (“you’re not supposed to be running with your leg situation, Reyes,” the gym teacher had told her earlier, despite Raven's loud protests that she was fine).  Lexa faced the girl's glare head-on, keeping her own face blank.

Instead of rolling the rubber ball smoothly, Raven put a spin on it, so that it bounced up from the hard-packed dirt at the last moment.  Lexa had been expecting something like this. She managed to kick it anyway, though it didn’t go very far. She sprinted towards first base and was just about to reach it--

WHAM.

The ball slammed into the back of her head, knocking her off her feet.  She landed on her knees and hands in the dirt and saw spots for an instant.

“REYES!”

“Sorry, coach,” the girl called out unrepentantly.  “I was aiming for her back.”

“You okay?” A hand reached down into Lexa’s vision and helped her to her feet.  

It was Clarke. Her brow was furrowed in genuine concern, and she reached out as if to touch the back of Lexa’s head before catching herself.

“I am fine,” Lexa snapped.  “But it seems sportsmanship is a novel concept to your people.”

Clarke frowned at her.  “Hey, she said it was an accident,” she defended.  

“Yes, she must have _accidentally_ confused kickball and assault--”  

“Trikru, you hurt?” the PE teacher asked from the sidelines.

Dusting off her knees, she didn’t bother to correct the woman’s shortening of her clan name.  “No, ma’am.”

“Then you’re safe on first, headshots don’t count.  Jordan, you’re up!”

Lexa set a foot on base, knees slightly bent in readiness, all too aware of Clarke’s scowling presence a couple feet away.  

“Raven has good reason not to like you, y’know,” the American girl muttered as they watched Jasper at home plate.

“I never hurt her,” Lexa hissed back.

“You had a knife.”

“I did not use it.”

Clarke sighed.  Lexa glanced over, saw she had her hands on her hips and an unexpectedly open look on her face.  “She has a shitty home life, okay? Her mom is...not there for her. It wouldn’t kill you to be nicer.”

Lexa considered this, meeting the blonde girl's gaze while Jasper readied for another kick.  Her own family might’ve been gone, along with her homeland, but at least her memories of them were good ones.  “I am not here to be nice, Clarke,” she said finally. “But I will try if she does.”

She took advantage of Clarke’s surprise to sprint off and steal second base.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone asks, I do plan to continue this and will update when I can/when it's ready. In the meantime, feel free to send prompts and asks to me on tumblr (sanscarte). As always, comments & kudos are much appreciated!
> 
> Beginning quote from If They Come for Us, by Fatimah Asghar.
> 
> “Chicken Finger Friday” is from my own public high school days.


	3. not friends

“Stories are deceptions

But if we tell the right ones

Progress is possible”

***

“Chicken Finger Friiii-day,” Raven sang, shaking her hips to an imaginary beat as she and Clarke threaded through the crowded cacophony of the cafeteria.

Clarke shook her head. “You’re obsessed.”

“It’s the best day of the week, Griffin. Don’t hate just cause you’re a _vegetarian._ ” She said the last word in a snooty tone, turning her nose up at the sack lunch Clarke carried.

“You know there’s probably pink slime in those things,” Clarke pointed out.

Raven just stuck out her tongue.

Along with Jasper and Monty, Octavia had already claimed their usual table...but sitting very close to her was a tall, broad-shouldered Trigedan senior.  His name was Lincoln, Clarke was pretty sure. Dark geometric tattoos curled up the light-brown skin of his neck and onto his buzzcut scalp, but he seemed marginally friendlier than most of his compatriots.  He at least didn’t scowl quite as much as Lexa did.

He and Octavia sprang apart as they approached, and with a quick nod to her he quickly left the table.

“Turning into a Grounder groupie?” Raven teased Octavia, a slight edge in her voice.

Her friend looked away.  “Shut up, he’s just helping me with an assignment.”

“Sure, whatever O.”  

As soon as Raven plopped down at the table, Jasper immediately tried to steal one of her chicken fingers.  With a fake snarl, Raven blocked his arm. Then she picked up each chicken finger on her plate, one by one, and licked them while staring him down.  

Jasper scoffed.  "Like that'll stop me."

"You two are disgusting," Clarke said, shaking her head.

“Dunno wha’ you’re talking aboufff,” Jasper mumbled around a giant mouthful of food.  Raven laughed, but then stiffened a moment later.

“What do you want?” she spat at Lexa, who’d walked up with her tray in hand.

The girl ignored her hostility and looked at Clarke, her gaze as intense as ever.  “Clarke. I can meet this afternoon to work more on our project. Are you free after school?”

She thought about it.  “Yeah, that works, unless--Raven, you coming over today?"

"Nah. Got a shift at the shop, then I'll probably hang out with Finn."  
  
Octavia and Clarke both gave her a look.  "Rae...”   
  
The girl avoided their eyes, stabbing her fork viciously into the overcooked broccoli on her plate.  "We’re just hanging out, it’s whatever.”

Clarke knew well enough to drop it.  “How’s your head?” she asked Lexa instead, who looked surprised at the question.

“Hurts,” she said with a shrug.  Then, pausing and glancing towards Raven, she added stiffly, “You have a strong arm. You’re a formidable kickball opponent.”

Raven squinted up at her in suspicion. “Thanks, I guess…?”

Lexa gave her a solemn nod, then returned her gaze to Clarke, almost as if seeking her approval.  “What time do you want to meet?”

“I need to stop by home first, then I’ll come over.  Say 4:30?”

“I will see you then, Clarke.”  She turned to leave, but not before Clarke noticed that her lunch appeared to consist entirely of chicken fingers, an almost absurd amount of dipping sauce, and chocolate milk.  Like a little kid’s lunch. It didn’t fit with her aloof, vaguely threatening image at all.  
  
"So...how is she as a project partner?” Monty asked conspiratorially.

“Yeah, she try to shank you yet?” Jasper chimed in.

"She isn’t that bad so far.  She seems pretty smart, actually,” Clarke admitted.  “And actually does her share of work, which is more than I can say for _some people_.”  She glared at Jasper, who just grinned back at her unrepentantly; earlier in the year they’d been assigned to do a chemistry lab together, which had been a total disaster.

Brooding and mysterious as she was, at least Lexa probably didn’t think it would be a good idea to try _drinking_ the ethanol they were supposed to use for an experiment.

There was a loud crackle, and the sound of feedback buzzed over the cafeteria’s din.  Principal Kane stood at one end of the room with the megaphone used for announcements and basketball games.  

“Good afternoon, Academy 100!” he called out, falsely cheery, while a roomful of adolescents completely ignored him.  He twiddled with the volume knob, earning only another harsh screech of feedback before he gave up and continued. “We have some school-wide announcements.  First of all, I’d like to remind everyone that smoking is not permitted anywhere on the school campus. That includes the boys’ bathroom, and cannabis--”

“Oops,” Jasper said quietly.  

Monty elbowed him.  “Dude, I told you not to--”

“--also next Tuesday, Arkadia Community College as well as Army and Navy recruiters will be tabling outside the cafeteria during lunch.  I’d like to encourage our seniors in particular to go talk to them. And finally, I’m sad to announce that this year’s Student Showcase has unfortunately been cancelled.”

“What?!” Clarke exclaimed.  She’d partly tuned out his words, but that caught her attention.  The Student Showcase was a yearly art show where students displayed their artworks and gave dance and music performances.  Sure, the cheese trays and sparkling grape juice served were Costco-bought, but it was held in an actual gallery space donated for the night.  It was one of the few things she’d really been looking forward this school year.

“Shit,” said Octavia sympathetically.  “That’s so unfair, dude.”

As soon as Kane finished his announcement, Clarke was out of her seat and storming towards him.

“Why did you cancel the showcase?” she demanded.

“Budget constraints, Miss Griffin,” he told her evenly.  “It’s an expensive event, and not all of our students participate in it.”

“I don’t play basketball, but I notice you aren’t canceling _that_.”

The man sighed.  “We had to make some sacrifices.  Our budget is tighter than ever this year.”

“Because of all the Grounders coming in,” a voice cut in.  It was Finn.

“It’s a complex situation, and there are a lot of different demands for funding.  Not necessarily because of any new students.” Finn snorted, and the principal shot a stern look at him and Clarke.  “Lunch is almost over, you two should get going to class.”

He left, and in his wake Finn muttered, “Yeah right.  He knows it’s because of all the fucking Grounders and their special little ESL classes.”  He looked at Clarke as if he expected her to agree, then leaned towards her with a smirk. “Sorry about your showcase, Princess.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, walking away.

But he kept pace with her.  “You could show _me_ some of your art instead.  For old times’ sake,” he leered.   _Why_ had she ever found him attractive? she wondered.

“Old times? Like the good old time when you didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend?”

“Hey, that was a miscommunication…” He threw his hands up in a fake-innocent expression.

“Then let me be clear, Finn.  I don’t want anything to do with you.”  She enunciated each word carefully.

A dark look twisted his face for a moment.  “Fine, jeez.” But fortunately he kept his distance after that.  

What upset Clarke, as she headed to her next class, wasn’t just losing the opportunity to display her art, or even Finn being a douche.  It was the fact that she wouldn’t be able to put the Student Showcase on her art school applications next year. She was already limited by the fact that Academy 100 only offered one basic-level art class and virtually no extracurriculars...oh, and the tiny little fact that she had been arrested and expelled from her previous high school.

Without something like the showcase, her chances at getting in somewhere she wanted to go were smaller.  And it gave her the same cornered feeling she’d had before, when they’d stuck her in that cell in juvie.

But she'd be damned if she let this place limit her like that.

***

Her mom got home from work while she was putting her laptop and study materials in her bookbag.  When she came into the kitchen, Abby Griffin was still in her scrubs, leaning against the counter as if it was holding her up.

“How was school, dear?” she asked.  She fiddled absently with a thin silver chain that dipped under the collar of her shirt.  Clarke knew that her father’s wedding band hung from it.

“Fine,” Clarke lied.  She debated with herself for a second, then grabbed something from a cabinet and shoved it into her bag.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”  She wasn’t feeling very charitable, even though her mom looked exhausted.

Abby sighed. “Out where, Clarke? It’s a school night.”

“I’m just going to Lexa’s house. We’re working on a project for science class.”

“Lexa,” her mom repeated, straightening up and frowning in thought. “Who is that?”

“A classmate. Why do you care all of a sudden?”

Abby’s jaw tightened. Mother and daughter faced each other across the kitchen island, with their arms crossed tightly, shoulders squared in the same stance. “I care about your life and your well-being, Clarke. And who you’re hanging out with.”

“If you care so much about my well-being,” Clarke snapped, suddenly hot with fury, “why’d you let them pull the plug on Dad?”

Her mom exhaled sharply. “I had to make a decision, you know he had no chance.”

“No, I don’t know that, Mom! You don’t either! He could’ve fought, he could’ve woken up—”

“He couldn’t,” Abby shot back.  “His brain had suffered too much damage, only the ventilator was keeping his body alive.  I’ve seen that before with too many patients. They don’t come back.”

“Okay, whatever, Doctor Griffin,” Clarke snarled. “You could’ve at least given me a chance to say goodbye.”

She was suddenly tired. Tired of her mom falling into doctor mode whenever they talked about Jake’s death, tired of both of them needing so badly to be _right_ , tired of missing her dad...it was a physical weariness, sunk into her limbs.  “Look, can I go? I’ll be back way before curfew.”

Abby paused, and Clarke barely resisted rolling her eyes.

“I can get you her foster mom’s number if you want to check up on me.  Make sure I’m not out doing drugs or getting arrested again or whatever you think I’m gonna do.”

“I don’t think you’re going to--” Abby bit back her own words, and sighed again.  “Yes, you can go. Just...drive safe, okay?”

It was the little shred of vulnerability in her mom’s voice on the last part that made Clarke soften slightly.  “I will,” she muttered, grabbing her car keys from their spot on the counter. “See you later.”

***

Lexa didn’t comment on the sullen look clouding Clarke’s face when the girl arrived at her apartment.  Even though it was surprising—at school Clarke normally wore a smile around her friends, or a little furrow between her brows when she was concentrating.

Not that Lexa paid much attention to her moods or her face, or anything.

But then Clarke tossed her bookbag onto Lexa’s desk and started unpacking her books and laptop, slamming them down hard enough that the cheap wood shook.  

“What is wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Ah. This must be a strange American definition of ‘nothing’ that really means ‘something, but I do not wish to discuss it’.”

The sarcasm made Clarke look over at her and relent a little.  “It’s the student showcase getting canceled. And also my mom,” she muttered.

“You don’t actually have to talk about it if you don’t wish to,” Lexa felt the need to point out, sitting down on her bed. “We are not friends.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

Lexa shrugged.  She wasn’t entirely sure herself.  She just saw the anger and pain written clear on the girl’s face and wanted to understand what had caused it.  “Your emotions could make it difficult to work on this project,” she said finally, eyeing a notebook Clarke had slammed down recklessly, its cover bent back by the force.

The blonde sighed and slumped into the desk chair.  “My mom’s just...being over-protective. She’s always suspecting me of getting into trouble nowadays.  I get arrested one time and it’s like I’m a criminal.” When Lexa didn’t react, she looked up. “That was a joke, by the way.”

“Ah, I see.  In my country, we do not joke about being arrested.”

“Right.  I read some stuff about that online,” Clarke said vaguely, frowning.  “After what you said about the war.”

Whatever she had read, Lexa doubted any American media did justice to it. To the terror of the Maunon’s secret police breaking down the door and dragging supposed dissidents away to their bunker headquarters, as they’d done to her parents.  To the tales of torture and horrific medical experiments carried out in that place. To the villages destroyed by missiles, the chemical weapons and gases used by the Maunon and the Azgeda paramilitary on their fellow citizens.

She tried to shake off those thoughts.  “Perhaps your mother is being over-protective because she worries for you,” she observed.  “You are lucky to have someone who cares for you so much.”

But it was the wrong thing to say, making the other girl bristle.  “Do me a favor and mind your business. I know I don’t have this tragic past of war and being a refugee and shit, I know I should be _grateful_ to have my mom, now that my dad’s gone--”  Her voice broke, and she didn’t continue that thought.  When she spoke again, her voice was harsher. “Anyway, like you said, we aren’t friends.”

“Fine. Then we should get to work,” Lexa stated coolly.

“Agreed.”

They worked in tense silence, punctuated only by curt comments on the assignment.  Yet they still moved through the work with remarkable speed, each taking on different tasks and completing them methodically. They made a good team.  

Lexa noticed, from the corner of her eye, that Clarke’s posture relaxed little by little, her frown slowly fading.  After a while Clarke leaned back from her computer and glanced sideways at her.

“Sorry about earlier,” she mumbled.  “It’s been kind of a bad day.”

“It’s okay, Clarke.”  

“I brought something for you.”  The blonde pulled something else from her backpack and tossed it onto the bed next to Lexa.  

Curious, Lexa picked up the small bag. It was a kind of gummy candy shaped like colorful octopuses, which she’d never seen before.

“My dad loved candy.  My mom and I don’t really eat it, but he always had his stash in the kitchen, there’s still some left,” Clarke said quietly, picking at a spot of paint on her jeans.  “And you seem to like junk food, so I thought...”

“Thank you. But what is ‘junk food’?” Lexa frowned.  American colloquialisms were so hard to keep track of, so different from the formal English she had learned in primary school.

“Chips and sweets and processed things. Chicken fingers, stuff like that.”

“Then yes.  I like junk food.”  Though really, Lexa liked just about any food; she’d gone hungry too many times to care much about the type or healthiness of it.  She opened the bag and selected one of the candy creatures.

It was good.  Overly sweet, in that way so much American food was, but with a little tartness and a faint grit of granulated sugar against the gummy texture.  She hummed happily, earning a laugh from Clarke, who was watching her eat.

“What?”

The girl shook her head, a slight smile on her lips as she turned back to her schoolwork. “Nothing.”  

It was a different kind of ‘nothing’ than before, but which Lexa suspected also meant ‘something’.  She just wasn’t sure what.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this short update...next one is coming soon and will involve some Suspense and Action and Lexa being a bit of a badass. In the meantime, feel free to send prompts and asks to me on tumblr (sanscarte). As always, comments are much appreciated!
> 
> Beginning quote is from "Awkward Scars" by Robbie Q. Telfer.


	4. personally, I’d bet on Lexa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s been a while for this fic, y’all. honestly I wasn’t able to write much this fall because of depression and PTSD. but guess what, things like therapy/the right medication, going outside, spending time with friends, etc. *actually do help*! Here’s to everyone finding the things that make their own lives better in 2020.
> 
> tw: descriptions of violence, mention of homophobic slur

“...The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.” 

 

***

On her way to first period the following week, Clarke nearly stumbled when the flow of students suddenly bunched up and split, like an eddy forming around a rock in a river.  The rock turned out to be Lexa. Unsurprisingly, nobody wanted to risk running into _her_.  

She stood stock still in the middle of the hallway, staring at a locker.  Or more precisely at the word someone had scrawled across it in thick, dripping black paint.

‘ _NATRONA_.’

Clarke’s curiosity was piqued--not as much by the Trigedasleng graffiti as by Lexa’s reaction to it.  Instead of wearing her typically stoic mask, she was scowling, hands balled into fists at her sides. They shook ever so slightly.  

“What does it mean?” Clarke asked, despite herself.

“‘Traitor’,” Lexa spat out.

“That’s harsh.  Whose locker is it?”

“Mine.” Lexa glared at the word for another moment, before slamming a fist into the metal surface.  Hard. Then the girl spun on her heel and was gone before Clarke could even react.

She shook herself a little and hurried to Ms. Cartwig’s class, but not before noticing a visible dent in the locker door and a faint smear of blood in its middle.

After she settled into her seat, Clarke noticed a tall white kid looming next to Ms. Cartwig at the front of the classroom.

“Everyone, quiet down! Monty, in your seat please. We have a new student,” the teacher announced. He looked more like a grown man than a high schooler, with actual stubble over the matching raised scars that curved down from his temples.  He must’ve been at least 18, despite being placed with the juniors here. 

Though the American students inevitably kept talking and horsing around after the teacher called for quiet, the mere sight of the young man sent an immediate hush through the Grounders. Clarke glanced over at Lexa and saw her jaw tighten almost imperceptibly.  The knuckles on her right hand were still bloody and raw. 

The newcomer, for his part, coolly scanned the classroom until his gaze fell on Lexa--or more specifically, on the tattoos peeking from beneath the sleeves of her T-shirt.  Then it sharpened.

“This is Roan kom’Aze—Azgeda,” the teacher said, fumbling with the foreign syllables.  “Everyone make him feel welcome.”  

None of the Grounder students made a sound. 

The next day Clarke passed by Lexa’s locker again.  The paint was still there, though someone had clearly attempted to remove it, resulting only in smeared edges on the letters.

Before class started, she made her way to Lexa’s desk.  “Hey. Can you meet after school tomorrow so we can finish up the project?”

“Yes, I can.” 

“We can work at my house this time, I’ll drive.  Meet you by the parking lot after the last bell?”

The Trigedan girl just nodded.  _So we’re back to stoic-broody-vaguely-threatening Lexa, huh,_ Clarke thought, with surprising disappointment.

“Also, I wanted to give you something.” She took a small bottle out of her backpack, which Lexa examined warily.  “This’ll get the paint off your locker, trust me. It’s got pumice stone in it or something. The janitor uses it.”  

Someone had scrawled “Dyke” on Clarke’s locker earlier that year, after the party where she’d made out with a senior girl named Niylah.  She’d endured the resulting jeers from a couple of assholes for a single day, until Raven threatened to hit them in the groin with her crutch.  Then she’d taken some paint, written “ *BISEXUAL” over the slur, and added a rainbow just for the hell of it.  

Eventually, a slightly awkward Principal Kane had told her to remove it all, though he’d spared her detention since it was her own locker she’d technically defaced.  The janitor had taken pity when he’d seen her scrubbing away ineffectually at the markings, and had given her this apparently magical cleaner.

Lexa finally took the bottle.  “Thank you, Clarke.” The name clicked off her tongue with the usual accented flourish, which somehow made Clarke’s name sound exotic and noble.  

Unaccountably, she felt a little flustered.  “It isn’t a big deal. Just--nobody should have to deal with that kind of bullshit every time they go to their locker.”  And she fled to her own seat, Lexa’s eyes still upon her.

***

Clarke’s cleaning solution worked, to Lexa’s pleased surprise, and “ _NATRONA_ ” soon vanished with a little scrubbing.  But two days later, a whole phrase was emblazoned across her locker.

“ _JUS DREIN JUS DAUN_.” 

This time there was a whole group of Trigedan students murmuring and pointing at the graffiti when Lexa arrived at school.  She kept her chin lifted high and gaze steady, refusing to show her anger or fear.

“B _ilaik emo branwada kom’Azgeda,_ ” Gustus growled, looming over her shoulder.  “He did this.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“I know who his mother is.  And these words only started to appear after he arrived.  It’s an insult.”

“It’s a trap.”  She chewed her lip.  It was indeed an insult, one that could not go unchallenged in their culture or she would be forever branded a _bushada_ by her own people. Yet if she fought Roan she risked getting in trouble, possibly getting arrested or expelled.  School authorities here seemed to care more about rule-following than such things as honor or justice.

 _“Beja, heda, teik ai put emo daun fou--”_ Gustus said urgently.

 _“Nou. Non na throu daun gon ai,”_ Lexa growled.  She raised her head, opened her locker, and took out her textbooks, slamming the locker shut again.  “Spread the word,” she told Gustus, voice firm and loud enough the other gossiping students would hear.  “I challenge Roan. _Soulou gonplei_.”

***

_Two and a half years before…_

When Commander Quint stepped on a mine and died, Lexa was close enough to him that her ears went muffled and his blood spattered across her face.  It mixed with the dark greasepaint she’d applied to her face as camouflage, dripping down her cheeks.  

Before she could even hear her own voice through the ringing, she barked orders at the troops around her and directed a retreat to the cover of deeper woods, since any nearby Azgeda patrols would have heard the explosion.   Once they regrouped, she sent out Lincoln to scout them a safe route back to camp, because he was sharp and good at navigating. He obeyed her without hesitating.  

She didn’t realize she’d effectively taken command until they were in camp, when Anya and a couple of the others were staring at a map and debating their next move in increasingly tense voices.  Then Anya looked towards where Lexa sat, cleaning her gun.

“What do you think, _Heda_?”

“What?” She was taken aback.  Anya must’ve been joking; she did have a dry sense of humor under her hardened exterior.  “I’m not the commander.”

Anya tipped her head back, looking at her.  “Aren’t you?”

And Lexa realized that half the camp was looking at her.  She realized Brahim had come to her to ask how many sentries they should post that night, and Djeni had informed her how much ammunition they had left.  Even when Quint had been alive, they had listened to _her_ when he wasn’t around, or when he was too drunk to give coherent orders.  

Besides, who else was there? 

Quint’s former second-in-command had been killed by a sniper a month prior.  Half the rebel platoon were conscripted teenagers like her and Lincoln, some even younger than Lexa.  Anya was too reactive; she was an incredible fighter but not a tactician. Gustus could be paranoid sometimes, averse to taking necessary risks...and it dawned on her, then, that she knew every single one of her fellow rebels, knew their particular skills and weaknesses and how best to deploy them.

Her breath caught, as if she had just stepped and heard the click of a mine herself.  She set down the gun carefully.

“They need you,” Anya murmured, close enough now that only Lexa could hear.  “And you know it.”

She did.  But...she could still leave.  Slip away tonight between the sentry posts.  Quint wasn’t there anymore to track her down and punish her for deserting.  She could go back home…

But her village was gone, shattered by bombs, and gone with it were Aden and her grandparents.  There was nothing left for her in Tondisi.

At least here, she had Anya and Lincoln and Gustus.  And maybe she could do some good for her people by fighting the Azgeda death squads and the Maunon and their terrible regime, for as long as she could.  

Because she had no illusions that she’d outlive this war.  Commanders didn’t last long these days.

(And her skin was stained anyway, with rebel tattoos and blood she had shed.  She had long since lost track of her kills. How could she just go back to being a civilian?)

The chant started up somewhere among the soldiers around the campfire, almost joking at first but then serious as more joined in.  “ _He-da, he-da, he-da_ …”

The chanting swelled, along with a mix of fear, resignation, and honor in her chest.  Lexa swallowed down the fear and slowly rose to her feet.  

***

Word spread like wildfire through Academy 100 by lunchtime: there was going to be a fight.  It would go down after last bell, in the Pit--the vacant gravel lot behind the school, formerly belonging to an auto-body shop.  Its gate was rarely locked and it was hidden from view of the school by a tall fence, so naturally it was where the Delinquents went to settle grudges or smoke weed.    Monty shared the news with their table at lunch.

“Who is it?” asked Octavia, never one to miss a fight.

“Lexa and that new guy, Roan,” Monty said.  Clarke’s head shot up.

“He’s twice her size!” she exclaimed. “ _And_ we’re supposed to be working on our project after school!”

“And she’s a girl,” Jasper added, but withered under Octavia, Raven, and Clarke’s combined glares.  “I mean, not that that means she couldn’t be a capable and, um, strong fighter…”

“Why are they fighting, anyway?” Octavia wondered.

“I heard he’s the one who tagged her locker.”

“Nah, I heard that was Ontari.”

“Is she the one who looks like she wants to murder everyone?”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific--Lexa or Ontari? They’re both pretty murder-y, dude.”

“Yeah, violence is all those people seem to understand.”

Clarke didn’t participate in their speculative banter.  For some reason, she couldn’t eat much of her lunch. She kept picturing how small and nonthreatening Lexa had looked, cross-legged on her bed enjoying gummy candies... 

“Okay, I still don’t get why they’re fighting,” Octavia said later, as she and Clarke waited in line to return their lunch trays.  “I mean they’re both Grounders and it’s just graffiti…”

“They were enemies before they came here,” said a deep voice behind her.  It was Lincoln. His dark eyes lingered on Octavia, and she returned the glance with interest.

“Why, what happened?” Clarke asked him. 

“Roan is from the Azgeda clan, _Heda_ —I mean, Lexa—is Trikru clan,” Lincoln explained.  “They are on opposite sides in the civil war. The Azgeda support President Wallace and his regime.  And Roan’s mother, General Nia...her death squads are responsible for many war crimes.” His jaw tightened, in a movement that reminded Clarke of Lexa.  “Including killing someone close to Lexa.” 

“Shit,” she murmured. What else was there to say to that?

“So which clan are you from?” Octavia asked Lincoln, as they reached the tray return and slid their trays across the counter.

“I’m Trikru, too.  We are from different villages, but I fought with _Heda_ in the rebel militia.  That’s why I have these.”  Lincoln pulled up his T-shirt sleeves a little to show the tattoos on his muscular biceps. They were similar in design to the ones Clarke had seen on a few other Trigedan students, including Lexa.  The same tattoos Roan had stared at.  

Octavia reached out to touch them, tracing the geometric markings a little _too_ thoroughly, while Lincoln watched her fingers intently.

Clarke rolled her eyes at this little display. “Why do you call her ‘Heda’?” she asked.

“It means Commander.”

“Wait, she actually commanded you? Like in battle? But she’s, what, only seventeen now—“

“ _Heda_ was leading a platoon of rebels by the time she turned fifteen,” Lincoln murmured. “She is a skilled fighter.”

 _So young_ , Clarke thought, swallowing hard.  The end of lunch bell rang. “Lexa and Roan aren’t gonna actually try to kill each other, are they?” she said suddenly.

Lincoln just shrugged as he started walking away.  “ _Jus drein, jus daun_.  Blood must have blood.”

Octavia watched him go.  “Well, _that_ doesn’t sound good.”

The old Clarke, the one who made the honor roll every quarter and had all her AP classes for each year of high school all picked out, the one who hadn’t gone to juvie yet, would’ve rushed to tell a teacher about the fight.  The new Clarke, who knew better, just shook her head and tried to ignore her unease as they headed to class.

***

Lincoln wasn’t wrong, Clarke decided a few hours later: Lexa was indeed a skilled fighter.  She dodged and ducked Roan’s fists with a dancer’s grace and slammed unexpected punches into his face and solar plexus, then spun in a roundhouse kick like a damn MMA fighter.  Her long hair was pulled back, showing the intense focus on her face.

But Roan was no amateur himself.  Lexa was soon bleeding from a corner of her mouth and from scrapes on each palm, where she’d caught herself stumbling on the rough gravel.  The Trigedan students in the crowd watched the two fight in silence, as if it were some serious ceremony, while the Delinquents were, characteristically, cheering and shouting out bets.

“Holy shit.” Octavia whistled.  “This is like, Krav Maga mixed with Brazilian jiu jitsu or something.  So _cool_.”

Octavia really wanted to take martial arts classes, Clarke knew, ever since her brother Bellamy taught her some moves on his leave from the Army.  Clarke could see what she meant--Roan and Lexa hit and blocked with quiet, professional fluidity--but her own stomach churned a little. She couldn’t really appreciate it as a spectacle, because of the research she’d done recently.

_(“You’re a total nerd at heart,” Wells had always teased her, before everything went bad.  Before her expulsion and before his dad had shipped him off to boarding school._

_“Uh, look who’s talking,” she’d say, gesturing at the chessboard between them.  The fancy real-wood board she’d given him for his birthday._

_“Oh, I fully admit to my own nerdery,” he said with a grin.  “You try to hide it sometimes, with your cool artsy vibe, but you always want to know everything.  I bet you researched every possible choice of chessboard and which ones had the best reviews before you bought this.”_

_She fake-glowered at him, because she had done just that. “Maybe.  Anyway, it’s your move, nerd.”)_

She’d started with news articles on ‘the current Trigedan conflict’ and then went down an Internet rabbit hole, until after a while she’d had to stop because it made her feel almost sick.  There were reports--unconfirmed, but still--that the government led by Dante Wallace and his son Cage had used poison gas on its own people in peaceful street protests, that they regularly tortured and ‘disappeared’ dissidents.  They’d launched missiles at villages that supported the rebels, killing untold numbers of civilians, and armed the Azgeda paramilitary groups before the current UN peacekeeping mission had brokered a shaky ceasefire.

And both sides in the country’s long, bitter war had conscripted children.  

Some were orphans from bombing strikes and militia attacks, others kidnapped or forced into fighting by threats against their families.  Lexa had been a commander at fifteen, Lincoln had said, and Roan’s own mother was a general. How long had these two been fighting, in one battle or another? Had they ever been just teenagers, instead of warriors?

Roan slammed a heavy fist into Lexa’s stomach.  Clarke winced at the sight, but the girl only doubled over for a moment before she was returning his blows again.  By now they were both bleeding and panting for breath. 

Even the Delinquents had grown quieter, sensing this was something different from the usual amateur hotheads scuffling over a girl or a perceived slight.  Nobody was cheering anymore.  

“I can’t watch this,” Clarke muttered aloud. Anger suddenly rose up in her--at Roan, at Lexa, she wasn’t sure--and despite her words she couldn’t move, nor take her eyes off the fight.  Especially when Roan managed to knock Lexa to the ground a moment later.

***

Traditionally they would’ve fought with _bleironas_.  But since those didn’t exist in the United States, it was hand to hand combat.  This gave Roan a slight advantage, since he was taller and had a longer reach. Lexa was used to fighting combatants larger than her, however, and knew how to use her speed and litheness to her favor. 

 _And_ _he_ _wasn’t trained by Anya,_ she thought with grim satisfaction. She ducked beneath a punch from him, spinning away to land a vicious blow to his kidney. Roan grunted.  She was wearing him down.

Tradition also dictated they should fight until one of them either could no longer rise from the ground or verbally surrendered...or until one of them was dead.

A punch to the face made her vision go white for a second, sent her to the ground; blindly she kicked out, hitting Roan’s knee so hard he stumbled.  In a burst of speed, she knocked his other foot out from under him.

Pinning Roan with her knees and hands, she spoke in quiet Trigedasleng.  “You’re wrong, I am not the traitor here. I did not bomb villages or torture civilians. Or behead teenage girls.”

He was attempting to roll to one side, but froze at those words and stared up at her, mouth grim.

“I did not have anything to do with her, I swear,” he said in a low voice between gulps of air. “My mother had already sent me away from the front--”

Her grip tightened convulsively on him, almost hard enough to strangle.  But there was honesty in his eyes, and something like regret. She forced her hands to relax a little. 

“It doesn’t matter.  What’s done is done,” she growled. “But you have an opportunity now.  Your mother is not here, nor the war either. You can start over.”  

“You truly believe that?” he said with a mirthless laugh, but the last bit of fight seemed to go out of him.

Lexa hesitated.  Sometimes it felt like she carried the heavy pack of her own past wherever she went, unable to set it down.  Sometimes it felt like she’d lost everything to the war.

Catching distant movement from the corner of her eye, she glanced up, and for a moment her gaze met Clarke’s across the pit.

Then movement flashed again: a student darted around the gate of the vacant lot, calling out “Mr. Jaha is coming!”

Students started to disperse quickly, scrambling for the holes in the chainlink fencing.  Lexa stood, but before she could make her own exit the vice principal had appeared in the gate. 

“What’s going on here?” Jaha looked around, frowning at the sight of the two bloodied, bruised students—one still on the ground—along with the remaining audience. He raised his voice.  “This is private property. You should all be either headed home or at your extracurriculars. Leave, before I give you all detention. Now!”

Jaha started striding over to them, furious, but Lexa ignored him.  After a moment’s pause, she reached a hand down to Roan.

He stared at her, but took it and allowed her to help pull him to his feet.  “It was Ontari who wrote on your locker. Not me,” he murmured. “She believes blindly in my mother’s rhetoric and wishes to continue the fight here.”

“And you?”

Roan wiped some blood from his face and gave her a look that she knew, because she had seen it in her own reflection.  A look older than his years. “I am...tired of battle.”

“Yet you let me challenge you instead of Ontari.”

He shrugged.  “I am of her clan, the eldest Azgeda at this school.  It is my duty to fight on her behalf. I have no quarrel of my own with you.”

“You two want to tell me what the _hell_ this is about?” Jaha snarled as he reached them.

“It was a personal disagreement.  We have settled the matter,” Lexa stated calmly in English.  

“ ‘ _Settled_ _the matter’_? You were _brawling_ on school grounds--”

“Technically they aren’t on school grounds,” a familiar voice cut in.  Clarke had approached, blue eyes glinting as she looked between Lexa and Jaha.  “You just said it, Mr. Jaha, this is private property.”

“I don’t care, this is outrageous.  Roan, this is your first week here. And you, Lexa--I _told_ Kane he should’ve expelled you before.”  He jabbed a finger towards her, and Lexa repressed the instinct to knock it away.  “This time--”

“But the last bell rang already, Mr. Jaha,” Clarke piped up again.  “School’s over. This isn’t your property, and I’m assuming neither of them are going to charge the other with assault…”

Roan and Lexa both shook their heads.

“Clarke, stay out of this.  You are a child, not a lawyer,” Jaha snapped.

“And you are a vice principal, not a cop,” she tossed back.  “So unless you actually call the cops on them, there really isn’t anything you can do, is there.”

Jaha stared at her, momentarily incoherent with rage.  Lexa almost wanted to speak up, redirect his attention from the blonde to protect her.  But Clarke simply lifted her dimpled chin and returned his stare with defiance.  

It was rather impressive.

“Roan and Lexa, you both get a week’s worth of detention,” Jaha bit out, finally.  “For...disrespecting the school with your behavior off-campus and inciting other students to trespass on private property.  Now get out of here, all three of you.”  

He stalked back towards the school.  Roan sloped off with a wary but respectful nod to Lexa--and a similar one to Clarke.

Clarke, however, now glared at Lexa herself, her arms crossed over her chest.  “C’mon, let’s go.”

When she started walking away, her footsteps quick and heavy with anger, Lexa could do nothing but follow.  By the time they reached the student parking lot, her face was starting to ache where Roan had hit her, and her scraped hands were stinging.  “Clarke, could you slow down--”

“No, because we were _supposed_ to work on this stupid project together today, and now we really need to finish it because you just got detention for the rest of week,” Clarke snapped.  

“We could work on it this weekend,” Lexa offered.

“No we can’t, because I have to do community service,” the girl huffed as she stopped next to a silver-blue car.  She sighed. “Just get in the car, Lexa.”

A few silent minutes into the drive, Lexa spoke quietly.  “I owe you thanks. You did not have to speak up for us to Vice Principal Jaha.”

“It wasn’t personal.  Jaha’s kind of a dick.  I’m friends with his son from my old school, and Jaha bullies him too,” Clarke retorted, then glanced over at Lexa. Her eyes widened.  “Shit, your nose is bleeding.”  

Lexa dabbed a hand under her nose, and it came away red.  She froze as a memory washed over her: her hands were covered in blood from where they’d touched her stomach, as gunfire erupted around her position...

She was jolted out of the memory by Clarke leaning over, arm almost brushing her leg, while they were stopped at a stoplight.  The American girl opened the glove compartment, extricated a stack of paper napkins from a mess of cords, receipts, and other detritus, and handed them to Lexa.  Her expression softened slightly.

“Lucky for you, this is a crappy old car and I’ve already gotten paint all over the seats. Now stick these up your nose, tilt your head back, and don’t talk for a minute.”

***

Clarke was a little surprised how meekly Lexa followed her instructions, as if something had suddenly subdued her.  Anger was seeping out of the blonde, the almost irrational fury that had washed over her when Lexa had gotten injured, and then again when she’d received detention.  It was just _stupid_.  Why had Lexa chosen to fight a guy so much bigger than her and risk getting expelled or arrested? 

It shouldn’t really have mattered; they weren’t friends, after all.  She just didn’t like an unfair fight, was what she told herself. That was why watching Roan pummel Lexa had made her stomach churn.  (Even though, after having seen Lexa’s fighting prowess, it admittedly didn’t seem so uneven a match after all.)

They arrived at Clarke’s house before long, and she hurriedly unlocked the door and ushered Lexa inside.  “C’mon, let me take care of your hands.” 

Once in the downstairs bathroom, she took out the first aid kit Abby always kept well-stocked, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

“Really, there is no need to--” Lexa started to protest.

“You’re hurt, Lexa.  And I don’t care about my car, but my mom wouldn’t like having blood on the carpets.  Now, sit.” She pointed at the closed toilet lid until the other girl obeyed, then moved Lexa’s hands over the sink.

“This is gonna sting,” Clarke warned.  But as she poured the disinfectant over her palms and the reopened wounds on her knuckles, Lexa didn’t even wince.

“So why did you fight Roan?”

The brunette didn’t answer at first, just watched Clarke dabbing ointment on the scrapes.  “I thought he was the one who defaced my locker.”

“Hmm.  Y’know, Lincoln said your and Roan’s clan are on opposite sides in the war.  And that Roan’s mother was your enemy. It sounded...a little deeper than just some graffiti on a locker.” Clarke paused to open a couple of bandaids and darted a glance at Lexa’s face.  It was blank, but her jaw moved in a little circle, as if she were holding back angry words. “You don’t have to explain, I just--”

“Roan’s mother...one of her death squads captured someone special to me.  Her name was Costia. General Nia believed she knew where my forces were hidden. Because she was mine…” and Lexa swallowed, but her voice remained steady, “they tortured her, killed her, cut off her head.”

A chill ran through Clarke, and her stomach rolled.  “God, I'm so sorry.” The words felt far too small, for something so terrible.  As much as it had hurt to lose her dad, this seemed even worse.

Lexa stared with unseeing eyes at the bathroom wall.  “I thought I'd never get over the pain, but I did.”

“How?

“By recognizing it for what it is...weakness.”

“What is? Love? So you just stopped caring about everyone? I couldn’t do that.”  She’d tried it, after her dad died. She’d tried to shut everything out, and it hadn’t worked, and the grief and anger had just flooded back like water spilling over a dam.

“It was the only way to make the pain go away.”

Clarke didn’t know what to say to that.  She realized she was still holding Lexa’s hands in her own, even though she was done bandaging them.  Lexa’s hands were warm, callused in a few places, her fingers slender and long.

She let go of them quickly and cleared her throat.  “I guess we should go work on the project. And I’ll get you an icepack for your face.”  She peered closer, gently touched Lexa’s nose. “It doesn’t look broken, I don’t think. Is it still bleeding?”

Lexa shook her head.  As they both stood, she touched Clarke’s arm briefly.  “Thank you, Clarke. You are a good healer.”

“You’re welcome.  My mom’s a doctor, she taught me some first aid.”  She gave Lexa a small smile before putting the kit away.  “But listen, you should drop this ‘ _jus drein jus daun’_ eye for an eye stuff, okay? I get that you had reasons for fighting Roan, but that isn’t how things are supposed to work here.  And I think Jaha’s gunning for a reason to expel you.”

Lexa looked at her for a long moment, then nodded slowly.  “Okay.”

***

They made steady progress on their project, but after a couple of hours Clarke’s stomach growled loud enough to interrupt them.  “You want mac n’ cheese?” she asked. “I’m gonna make some for myself.”

Perhaps predictably, Lexa’s eyes lit up.  “Yes, please.”

Clarke wasn’t really expecting Lexa to accompany her to the kitchen.  She definitely wasn’t expecting Lexa to perch on one of the counters, long blue-jean-covered legs dangling and the heels of her sneakers knocking the cupboards, quizzing Clarke on their presentation content while she prepared the food.  

“So how did you learn to fight like that, anyway?” Clarke asked as she dished out the Easy Mac.

Lexa hummed around a mouthful of food, swallowing before she answered.  “We learn basic unarmed combat in grade school, in Trigeda. And then my _fos_ \--” she frowned in thought, “my mentor, she taught me how to handle the gun, and the blade.”

“Wait, you mean you fought with _swords_?? Like actual medieval knight swords?” Clarke goggled at her.

“Occasionally. Not knight swords--they are _bleironas_ , more like a...machete, I think is the word. Traditional Trigeda weapons.”

“Seriously?!”

Lexa shrugged.  “Mostly we used guns, but _bleironas_ are good in close combat. Quieter, and you don’t run out of ammunition.”

“What’s next, you rode horses too?”

Lexa’s lips curled upward slightly.  “Actually…”

Clarke stared at her. “You’re kidding me.”

“I am kidding. We did not ride horses into battle.” As Clarke snorted a laugh, Lexa’s hint of a smile inched wider.  “I did ride as a child, though. My grandfather kept some horses just outside of our village and--” The door to the garage opened and Lexa cut herself off, sitting up ramrod-straight.

Abby came in, already sighing in exasperation.  “Clarke, I asked you to bring the trash cans in when you got back from school today,” she started, shrugging off her bag and jacket, before she looked up to see the other teenager in her kitchen.  “Oh, sorry. Who’s this?”

“This is Lexa, Mom.  We’re working on that science project together.”  Feeling bratty, she took a big mouthful of mac n’ cheese and spoke around it.  “I’ll bring in the trash cans when I go to drop her off.” As she’d expected, her mom grimaced at her rudeness.  

Lexa, on the other hand, stood and held out a hand.  “It is nice to meet you, Dr. Griffin,” she said formally.

“Nice to meet you too, Lexa.”  With a raised eyebrow, Abby went to shake her hand--but she noticed the bandaids on her palm and stopped, frowning.  Then she looked closer at Lexa, her clinical eye noticing the bruising on her face, the black eye starting to appear.  “What happened to you?”  

She reached towards Lexa’s face, but the girl quickly stepped back, making her frown even more.

“Oh yeah, that.  Lexa plays, uh, rugby,” Clarke invented wildly before Lexa could say anything.  “It’s a pretty rough sport.”

“Rugby, huh?” Abby eyed her daughter this time.  “I thought your new school only had basketball and soccer.”

“She’s, um, on a club team.”  Clarke met her mom’s eyes steadily, but she had the feeling Abby knew something was up.  She was way too good at that, it was just unfair.

“Hm.  Well, it’s nice to meet you, Lexa.  You’d better take some ibuprofen, that looks painful,” she remarked.

Lexa shrugged.  “I have had worse.” 

Clarke spoke up again, because she didn’t want any follow-up questions to _that_.  “Oh hey, Lexa, we should finish up our project and get you home.  Let me put your bowl in the sink...”  

She hustled the Trigedan girl back upstairs, away from her mother’s sharp eyes.  But Lexa’s gaze was equally sharp once they were safely ensconced in Clarke’s room.

“Why did you lie to your mother, Clarke?”

“Because,” she sighed, “she’s worried about me violating my probation and getting in trouble again.  If she thinks I’m hanging out with someone who picks fights and gets detention for a week, she’ll be breathing down my neck. Probably move my curfew back.”

Lexa frowned.  “I did not ‘pick a fight’.  I was defending my honor--”

“Whatever, same thing, Xena.”  Seeing a questioning look in the other girl’s eyes, she continued, “and I’ll explain who that is _after_ we finish our project, okay?”

***

They aced the presentation. Clarke had been a little bit worried about Lexa’s part of the presentation—though her English was excellent, would she get nervous?—but it turned out to be baseless.  Lexa stood tall at the front of the class, clasped her hands behind her back, and delivered her part of the presentation fluidly. She had the polished air and poise of a career politician giving a speech.  

Clarke found herself watching the other girl from the corner of her eye, almost missing one of her own cues to speak.

“Excellent job,” Mr. Sinclair told them afterwards, after the fitful applause of their classmates (apart from Raven, who’d whistled and hollered “Talk science to me, baby!” at Clarke). “Stay after class, I’d like to talk to you both.”

That made Clarke a little nervous--but they couldn’t be in trouble for anything.  Right?

“You two make a good team,” Sinclair said after the bell rang and their classmates departed.

Clarke glanced at Lexa, expecting to see her usual silent, chilly nod of acknowledgment.  So she was flabbergasted when Lexa actually commented, “Clarke is a hardworking partner.”

Not wanting to be outdone, she quickly said, “Well, Lexa’s pretty good at presentations, so that helps.”

Sinclair regarded both of them.  “I’m trying to set up a tutoring group for our Trigedan students, once or twice a week after school. We don’t really have enough staff for it,” he admitted, looking a little embarrassed, “so I’m looking for some student volunteers who are doing well in class and good at explaining concepts.  Like you two.”

Clarke hesitated.  “But I don’t speak Trigedasleng.”

“That’s fine, you can help more with the material.  Some of them need to practice English, anyway.”  

She considered it.  Tutoring a bunch of violence-prone, aloof, hardened refugee kids didn’t sound that appealing...but on the other hand, she’d spent much of the previous weekend picking up trash on the side of a hot, dusty road in order to fulfill her probation terms.  The back of her neck was still sunburned and tender, and she could live without having to pick up used condoms ever again.  

Besides, it would give her an excuse to be out of the house, away from its echoing emptiness...and away from her mom.

“If you’ll sign something for my PO saying it’s community service, I’ll do it,” she said.  

“Great! What about you, Lexa?” asked Sinclair.

“I do not think I am the right person for this.”  Lexa’s voice was low and monotone.

Clarke glanced at her in surprise.  “But you’re, like, a leader for all the Trigedan kids.”

Lexa swallowed.  “Not all of them.”

“Well, most of them then.  They respect you,” Clarke countered.  She realized Sinclair was watching them curiously.  “And your English is better than anyone’s except maybe Lincoln.”

“Clarke’s right about that,” Sinclair chimed in.  “I think you’d be good at it, Lexa.”

Lexa looked back and forth between them, and then relented.  “Okay. But I have two conditions.”

Sinclair smiled.  “What are they?”

“You should invite Roan kom’Azgeda to participate as well.”

This time both Clarke and the teacher gave her surprised looks; word had gotten around school about the fight in the pit, of course.  Surprisingly, Roan hadn’t seemed to want a rematch with Lexa, and they’d kept a stiff but peaceful distance in the hallways. “But you and Roan…” she started to say.

“He and I have no quarrel with each other,” Lexa stated firmly.  “His presence will encourage those of his clan to attend the group.  You should include him if you want all the Trigedan students to benefit, even the Azgeda.”  She swallowed again, then lifted her chin. Clarke could read much in these tiny, quick gestures: pain and buried anger, but a determination to rise above them, to move forward.  “They should get that opportunity as well.”

“Okay.”  Sinclair nodded.  “What’s the other condition?”

Lexa flashed him a sudden grin.  “There should be snacks.”  

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigedasleng translations:  
> Bilaik emo branwada kom’Azgeda = It was that Azgeda shithead  
> Bushada = coward  
> Beja, heda, teik ai put emo daun fou-- = Please, commander, let me take him down before--  
> Nou. Non na throu daun gon ai = No. No one fights for me  
> Soulou gonplei. = Single combat.
> 
> Quote at beginning: The Second Coming, WB Yeats
> 
> Comments are always appreciated! You can also ask questions over at Tumblr (@sanscarte).


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